Perceptions and Delusions
by volley
Summary: Sometimes your senses help you, sometimes they trick you. Another adventure of the Disaster Twins, written for "Wasn't It a Grand Explosion?" Month.
1. Chapter 1

This story was written for "Wasn't It A Great Explosion" Month and… I hope it applies! – I'll let you find out why…

It is set before the Expanse, and plays out between present-day Enterprise and flashbacks of a mission on the previous day. To make things clearer (hopefully), I use xxx as a scene breaker when we are going to parts that do not take place on Enterprise.

Grateful thanks, as always, to my beta readers, Gabi2305 and RoaringMice.

§1§

He hadn't spoken to Malcolm since they'd come back to the ship the day before; and that was why, as Trip crossed the gym's threshold, he had an inkling of what might await him inside. It took him but a glance, indeed, to confirm that tension had the Lieutenant in a firm grip. Stopping inside, he studied the man more carefully. Actually, it was more than tension. He was up against a dangerous man in a rotten mood.

Peachy.

Malcolm was pumping iron – as in 'several-kilos-weights' – gaze fixed stubbornly straight ahead; it didn't swerve an inch at the sound of the doors opening and someone entering, even though he must have seen the newcomer reflected in the mirror and – if Trip knew the man – must be dying, in fact, to give him a good visual check-up.

_Nothin' that ya can't handle_ – Trip tried to reassure himself, as he paused for his next move.

This was no time to be faint-hearted. With purposeful strides he walked up to the Lieutenant, stopping where the icy grey gaze couldn't but smack right into him. It did, locking on his face much as their owner's beloved targeting sensors would on some enemy's warpcore.

Trip returned the silent glare; which, unfortunately, didn't bother Malcolm in the least. In fact, the man seemed to get subtle pleasure from this resolute approach, building energy for an actual clash.

As the seconds ticked by, a rivulet of perspiration snaked unhurriedly down the Lieutenant's temple, escaping his shiny black hair. Trip shifted his eyes to follow its course all the way down his friend's face, to his jaw, where it formed a drop that hung for a second before yielding to gravity. It provided a brief moment of distraction from the piercing grey stare, but those two pools of murky waters that were Malcolm's eyes were powerful magnets; unable to resiste their pull, Trip was inevitably drawn back to them.

"What?" he burst out, already tired of the silent act. He waved an impatient hand. "Let's hear it."

"You bloody well know _what_," Malcolm spat back without delay, voice rough with pent-up irritation, or maybe from the weight-lifting. Yeah, for he was still going at it, glistening biceps rippling with the strain. Trip eyed the pumping muscles and decided right then he didn't want to come on too strong.

"Look, I'm sorry, 'kay?" he conceded, involuntarily countering the exaggerated lilt of Malcolm's pissed-off British accent with a heavier-than-usual Southern drawl. And it was true. The hell if... Trip sighed. "Can't you stop for a moment while we discuss this?"

More drops of perspiration flew off the working man, and Trip reached for the towel that lay abandoned on a nearby bench, handing it out as a sort of peace offering. There was a grunt; with a clang the weights were put back on their stands and the towel was snatched rather ungracefully out of his hand.

"There is nothing to discuss."

_Damned stubborn man!_ Trip felt his blood begin to boil, and an irresistible if uncharacteristic urge to put Malcolm in his place. He'd been trying his best here, and he wasn't even in great form.

"Do I have to remind you that you're talkin' to a superior officer, Lieutenant?" he hissed.

That, of course, got him an immediate reaction: Malcolm straightened his shoulders and fixed his gaze on a nondescript spot behind Trip's back. He even managed to control his breathing. Standing at attention like a proper soldier, he uttered a dutiful, "I apologise; that was out of line, Sir," his cold tone of voice belaying the meaning of the words.

Trip grimaced inwardly. He hated this, losing his temper and pulling rank, especially with Malcolm; especially after what they'd been through. All that it could ever accomplish with the formal Lieutenant was to get him to don his favourite item of clothing: impenetrable armour; and that wasn't what he'd wanted to achieve, coming here.

He raised a hand to rub two fingers on his forehead but flinched, sucking in a quick breath, when he found the painful bruise there. Immediately Malcolm's eyes darted his way, and to his surprise some of the ice in them had been chipped away. So that's what was needed to soften the tough man.

Trip smiled to himself at the idea, even as he heaved an inner sigh. Why oh why, when they went on a mission together, trouble invariably invited itself and went along?

He tossed a frustrated arm in the air. "Look, forget about rank." Jerking his head sideways, he winced. "Can we start over?"

He knew he had made some leeway when Malcolm's shoulders slumped.

* * *

_The day before_

Malcolm stepped out of the Shuttlepod into the drizzling rain and pulled his regulation jacket closer. He had always hated a drizzling rain. Give him a thunderstorm and a downpour any time, over this impalpable wetness. Thunderstorms were declaredly wicked, layed their cards loudly on the table. But a drizzling rain was treacherous and sneaky, like an enemy lying in ambush: before you could realise it, you were dead – or soaked to the bone.

It didn't bode well, if you asked him.

"Permission to follow ya out of the pod, Lieutenant?"

Trip's tone was playful. Malcolm turned to see him leaning out of the open hatch, eager to act on his words regardless. It would be hard to curb the man's enthusiasm today: not only were they on a new world, but also on a quest for spare parts for his beloved engines; two things that put Trip in far too good a mood, as far as Malcolm was concerned. Drizzling rain aside, any new planet remained a dangerous environment until proven otherwise – that is to say, until the away party was back on Enterprise safe and sound. There was no place for jollity on away missions.

"Yes, Commander," he replied in a grave voice that was supposed to impress Trip with the fact. It didn't, of course, and the man joined him with a leap that was full of positive energy.

As he shifted his attention back to their surroundings, Malcolm couldn't help thinking that the Captain was far too easily influenced by his Chief Engineer. Take this mission, for example. It wasn't as if Trip really needed another injector, or whatever it was he hoped to acquire. But when Enterprise's long-distance sensors had discovered this planet and its society, which seemed technologically compatible with their own, Trip had wasted no time in suggesting they investigate whether these aliens could spare a part or two. It was important – he had insisted – not to lose this opportunity to stock up on some of the more delicate and easy-to-wear engine parts.

Malcolm suspected the man had simply longed to breathe some real air – for which he couldn't really blame him; and to meet a new species – for which he totally condemned him. Naturally Archer had embraced Trip's suggestion without reserve. When it came to shaking any odd-looking hand in the galaxy, the Captain was willing and trusting. A real nightmare. This time, though, his puppy-like eagerness had been put on a tight leash. Berellians had agreed to take their requests into consideration, but only two people were allowed to visit. When Archer had informed them, Malcolm had put on his iciest stare, the unmistakable 'you're-not-planning-on-accompanying-the-Commander-yourself' stare, and the Captain had got the message: Trip would have to go with Security.

It was a pity that _he_ was Security. On the other hand he had to admit that, technically, they _were_ out there to meet new species.

"What was it we're supposed to do?" Trip enquired with open anticipation, looking around the deserted landing strip. "Didn't T'Pol say somethin' about a welcoming party?"

Malcolm automatically lowered a hand to his hip, where it found the ever reassuring shape of his phase pistol. "Indeed, she said someone would be coming to fetch us," he murmured.

They had been given directions to a landing site at quite a distance from the city – which Malcolm hadn't thought of as particularly welcome news. You never knew when you'd have to make a fast take off. He didn't like the idea of being stranded far away from the pod, and having to rely on perfect strangers for their movements from and to it.

"This place is something," Trip went on excitedly.

"That it is," Malcolm had to agree. Even the drizzling rain couldn't detract from the planet's odd scenery.

On their landing approach they had enjoyed a good aerial view of the alien panorama: the city in the distance, a conglomerate of round structures of different diameters and heights capped with larger sections – Trip had commented that they looked like overgrown mushrooms; and the countryside around it, rolling hills where the cultivations drew neat and winding designs in varying shades of green, yellow and orange, vaguely reminiscent of some of Van Gogh backgrounds. All in all it had looked like a picture from a storybook. Now, from this lower perspective, they could appreciate some of the finer details: the glassy quality of the vegetation, leaves jingling softly and melodiously in the breeze; the sweet scent of the air, which pleasantly tickled their nostrils; the rubbery texture of these people's tarmac, which made their steps bouncier – although the lighter gravity would have something to do with that too.

"Should we ask the Capt'n to hail them?" Trip asked, the first touch of impatience entering his voice.

"Let's give them a few more minutes."

Malcolm slowly pivoted till he had completed a 360-degree-angle survey. Trip, more practically, raised a hand to shade his eyes against the drizzling rain, and looked up at the sky, in the direction of the city.

"I doubt a few more minutes are gonna make any difference," he said deadpan. "Unless they have transport technology, that is."

Bloody brilliant.

"As Security Officer I couldn't let some unknown aliens scramble our molecules."

"Afraid they'd put ya back wrong, Loo-tenant?"

A sudden buzzing sound spared Malcolm the need to reply to that, and they turned to see a large cylinder rise unexpectedly from the ground mere metres from the Shuttlepod. Malcolm secretly heaved a sigh of relief; Trip might joke about it, but he had no intention of trusting a stranger with their matter streams.

When the lifting cubicle came to a halt, a panel in it began to shimmer; in a blink it had turned into an opening, from which three short aliens emerged. They didn't stand taller than maybe a metre, and like everything else – it seemed, on this planet – they were rather curvaceous: round trunks set on stout legs; round heads with round faces; pug noses; bulging eyes topped by short hair. The three paused for a second; then started towards them, and Malcolm very nearly rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not hallucinating, for with each new step the three seemed to be getting taller. Yes, they definitely were.

A quick glance towards Trip confirmed – if there was ever any doubt – that the Commander was cut from quite a different cloth from his: the blue eyes sparkled with nothing but curiosity and amusement; no trace of the unease that, instead, had slowly but surely elbowed its way and taken up considerable space in the pit of his stomach.

Malcolm dutifully stepped in front of his Superior Officer, ignoring his grunt of displeasure. By the time the aliens had breached the few metres that separated them they had grown enough to be looking straight into his grey gaze. Fortunately it wasn't an Incredible Hulk sort of expansion, and their one-piece suit had stretched with them, being obviously made of a material conceived for that purpose.

Alien 1 pressed a button on a device hanging from his waist. "Welcome to Berellia, Commander Tucker," he said, the English coming slightly accented through the translator. "We are here to accompany you and your colleague to our Ministry of Intergalactic Affairs."

Malcolm blinked. "Actually, I am Lieutenant Reed," he replied, clearing his voice. He turned to introduce Trip, but the man was already sidestepping him, a big smile on his face.

"Please to meet you." Trip stuck out his hand. "I am Commander Tucker."

Under Malcolm's unbelieving eyes the aliens grew a few more centimetres, adjusting to Trip's height.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

§ 2 §

"I had bad vibes from the moment we launched," Malcolm muttered.

His mood hadn't improved by much. Trip rolled his eyes. "Don't you always?" he ventured to say, letting his face soften in an impish smile.

Malcolm didn't acknowledge it and shook his head. Passing the towel over his face, which was still sweating profusely, he re-emerged abruptly to add, "When those people arrived... You've got to admit, they were awfully strange."

"Right then I thought they were simply_ funny_," Trip said deadpan.

xxx

"Your Second in Command gave us the matrix of your language, so we could programme our translating devices," Alien 2 said. The Berellians had told them their names, but the hell if they were repeatable, let alone possible to memorise.

One of the few things, on this planet, that seemed to be absolutely straight was – Malcolm realised after a while – people's mouths. Corners didn't even _hint_ to pull up – or even down. He could see that Trip had noticed too, and as a consequence was reining in his laid-back nature.

"This way," Alien 1 said, as he started towards the cylinder from which the three of them had emerged.

Getting out of that irritating sprinkle was an inviting prospect, but Malcolm felt the need to give the cabin a perfunctory check. "I take it this is a lift?" he wondered warily, stopping just short of entering it. The other possibility was that it might rocket out of the ground and become air-born, and he'd rather not take that into consideration.

"A lift?" Alien 3 fiddled with the translating device; then turned to his partners with a puzzled frown.

"An _elevator_," Trip said, darting Malcolm one of his subtly teasing looks.

There was a grunt. "An elevator, yes," Alien 1 repeated, herding them in.

Moments later they were zipping through underground tunnels – the existence of which they could never have suspected – aboard a hovering capsule propelled at high speed. Trip's eyes still had that sparkle of excitement; and if Malcolm hadn't felt compelled by duty – and by the knot in his stomach – to keep all senses alert, he might have even shared some of it. When his motion sickness left him in peace he rather liked high speeds.

"Is the vessel on autopilot?" the Commander asked, after he had vainly looked around for a driver's seat.

Alien 2, who had been quiet until then, explained, "Arrows are shot from a control centre."

Malcolm's involuntary tensing seemed to add to Trip's enjoyment. Damn man. Obviously the translating device couldn't find a better word for the means of transport they were on.

* * *

"Okay, so next time we'll use a bit more caution," Trip said, dropping to sit on the bench.

"_We_?" Malcolm squealed.

"Alright, the Capt'n and I."

Leaning with his elbows on his knees, Trip let his head fall forward. Phlox's analgesic had obviously worn out, and he wanted to hide his discomfort. Of course it didn't work.

"You okay?"

Trip looked up: Malcolm stood there, towel in his hands, concern having finally chased away all irritation.

"Just a headache." He didn't mention the touch of nausea; Phlox had said it would come and go in waves for a while.

Malcolm put the towel around his neck and pulled on its ends. "Bloody hell, Trip, how many times do I have to…" He trailed, probably recognising the futility of his words. "Spare parts!" he snorted darkly.

xxx

The station at which the 'arrow' stopped just some five or six minutes later was spacious; it could have accommodated a lot of people. It was also empty. Not a soul was in sight, except for what looked like a couple of guards at the lift.

Trip – who had, despite the Berellians' unsmiling nature, engaged Alien 2 in conversation – happily ignored the fact, but Malcolm took proper notice. Obviously this wasn't a public place. He filed the information away, in a mental folder that was beginning to contain quite a bit of material on Berellia and its inhabitants.

The lift, similar in all to the one they had boarded at the landing place, took them straight up to a medium-size room, a pie section of a circle with the point cut off, and windows all along the curve part. They were obviously in one of those platforms capping the buildings of the city, and the view was stunning. Malcolm could not help taking a moment to admire it. The city extended as far as his eyes could see.

Ceilings were rather low, for human standards, but there was more than enough room to stand upright. At the pressing of a button on the wall the single round table in the middle of the room began to expand and grow, as did the stools around it. With a shimmer, a door appeared in one of the walls. The man who entered took a look at them; then joined the group, growing to stand even taller than Trip. There had been virtually no information in the Vulcan database about Berellians, let along this peculiar expanding property of theirs, but Malcolm was pretty sure that it had to do with the idea of not feeling inferior to their interlocutors or even – as now, with the newcomer – establishing a physical and metaphorical edge over them.

* * *

"The man made it a point to be intimidating right from the start."

Trip massaged his temples. This was what he had come for; to make Malcolm talk – surely the man must be full of repressed emotions. But to be honest he could also use his friend as a soundboard, because it was damn near impossible to take his mind off...

"I didn't see it like that," he said, cutting off that train of thought and the memories it entailed. "I thought he was just givin' himself a bit of importance." He patted the bench beside him. "Would you mind sitting?" he begged with a wince. "Lookin' up doesn't help my headache." Nor did it help the rest of his symptoms.

Malcolm slid to the floor, leaning against the wall, knees raised. "I didn't like it." He heaved a sigh. "Damned if I'll ever like someone who can grow from a midget to a height where I have to crane my neck to look at him," he muttered, bringing a faint smile to Trip's lips.

TBC

Looking forward to your comments.


	3. Chapter 3

A special thank you to those of you who have left reviews.

§ 3 §

"We will examine your requests in detail," the man, who had been introduced as the Minister of Intergalactic Affairs, told Trip.

He had wasted little time with the usual pleasantries, though he'd taken the time to make them sit around the table.

"We have put together a panel of the finest Warpfield Engineers."

Trip looked clearly pleased.

"And while you are busy with that…" The Minister turned to Malcolm. "For the Lieutenant we have arranged a visit to our War Museum."

Malcolm stiffened. "That is very kind of you, Minister; however, I'd rather remain with the Commander."

There was a beat of silence. Malcolm sought Trip's eyes, to convey a clear message, but they were riveted on the Berellians and the unspoken exchanges that were going on between them.

"I must warn you that it would be taken as a grave insult," the Minister finally said. "It would mean that you do not trust us."

"That's not the case," Trip hurried to reassure. "It is standard Starfleet protocol to have Security accompany a Senior Officer on away missions."

"Understandable. Nonetheless refusing a formal invitation is a breach of diplomatic protocol; and a grave offence, on Berellia." Malcolm could swear the man grew another bit as he added, "It certainly wouldn't set the right basis for the friendly cooperation you have come seeking."

Trip hesitated, which gave the unease in Malcolm's gut reason to elbow for yet more space. "Commander…" he muttered on the side, the warning in his voice winning him but a fleeting glance.

"We haven't come here to create a diplomatic incident," Trip said, eyes returning to his alien interlocutor. Without giving Malcolm another glance, he concluded, "I'm sure the Lieutenant will enjoy his tour."

Malcolm opened his mouth to speak, but had no chance.

"After the visit to the War Museum he will, of course, be able to rejoin with you," the Minister said. "Shall we?"

The ghost of a smile surprisingly lit his face, though his lips were still perfectly straight. For some reason Malcolm didn't find that at all reassuring.

They all rose, and Malcolm could only follow suit.

* * *

"What was I s'pposed to do?" Trip complained.

"Put up a compact front; refuse to let them separate us."

A dark tone had re-entered Malcolm's voice.

"I'm your Security Officer, for heaven's sake; you – and the Captain, for that matter – could show a bit more respect for my recommendations."

Trip scrunched his eyes closed against the onslaught of Malcolm's voice on his throbbing headache. Not only that, but the words were ricocheting against his skull, not as badly as they had on that damned planet, but annoyingly enough; he waited for the faint echo to die down before venturing to crack his gaze open again.

"Come on, Malcolm, you know I didn't mean to diminish your professional stature," he croaked out. "I was only thinkin' of diplomacy. After all, _we_ had contacted _them_; they seemed genuinely interested in helping us... I had no reasons to doubt their good faith." Careful of his bruise, he passed a hand through his hair. "A _compact front_ – as you call it – could have spoiled everythin'."

Malcolm snorted, and there was no mirth in the sound. "Oh yes, because instead things went off really smoothly."

"Alright, alright." Trip raised weary hands. "But don't fool yourself: all due respect but it's not like your presence could've made that much of a difference."

xxx

The "War Museum" was a poor excuse of an exhibition from where – Malcolm would bet his Lieutenant's pips on it – more recent technology had been carefully and pointedly excluded. Ever since he'd been small, weapons had always captivated him, and under different circumstances he would have found the tour intriguing no matter what; but as it was, his mind was elsewhere. He followed his guide around the curvy rooms trying at least to look like he was paying attention. His concern knew no reprieve, though he had a fleeting moment of amusement when he was struck by the thought that Berellia and its round architecture must be a heaven for newly-weds: not a "corner" in their love nests to put up a visiting in-law.

Repressing a sigh, Malcolm regarded the disruptor spear displayed in the clear case in front of him, and tried hard to dispel thoughts of how – and on whom – he'd like to use it. For all he knew Berellians might be able to read minds. He quickly refocused on his guide's explanation.

"... and the BW66 was still in use during the conflict of the seven cycles, proving an incapacitating yet non-lethal weapon that actually saved a lot of lives."

Malcolm cleared his voice. "Fascinating," he forced out, borrowing one of T'Pol's favourite adjectives. He eyed the next room. Was he ever going to meet up with Trip again? The Museum seemed endless.

xxx

"Before we get into the specs of your requests, we need to ask you a few questions, Commander."

Trip straightened his shoulders and raised his chin. He wanted to look unaffected by the Minister's intimidating height, but the truth was the man was now towering over him, having grown yet a few more centimetres, and he couldn't deny that a small knot of tension had started to make its presence known, somewhere under his sternum.

"What kind of questions?"

The Minister crossed his arms over his chest, taking his time to answer.

It wasn't only the man's growing act that was disquieting. The atmosphere seemed to have cooled the moment Malcolm had disappeared into the lift, throwing him that last, incinerating look. Maybe it was Trip's imagination – or guilty conscience; but… no – something _had_ definitely changed.

"Nothing you should worry about," the Minister said, drawing him out of his musings. "Come with me." He started towards a wall and one of those shimmering doors appeared in it.

They took a corridor that ran in a circle – you don't say! – and ended up in an inner room, this one perfectly round and with no windows. It had to be situated at the centre of the building's platform. Trip looked around. A chair; two Berellians who, the moment they stepped inside, adapted to the right height; a tray on the side with an array of gear only partly familiar.

Trip stopped dead in his tracks. "What's the meaning of this, Minister?" he demanded.

The man turned, and his face was now set in cold determination.

"This, Commander, is a bit of information gathering. Ah, no," he quickly added, as Trip made to reach for his pistol. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you." He motioned his henchmen, who had quickly reacted, to stand down. "Leave that weapon where it is," the Minister went on, tempering his voice with false amiability. He raised a device, thumb on a button. "It would be unfortunate if Lieutenant Reed had to… incur an accident."

A smile – yes – a real smile crept up his face.

"How do I know he hasn't already?" Trip countered angrily.

The Minister shrugged. "You don't." He turned and walked to the chair, leaning with both hands on its back. "This doesn't need to be unpleasant, you know. Give us what we want and we'll even look at those specs you brought."

* * *

"How was the Museum?" Trip tried.

Malcolm lifted steely eyes. He was perfectly immobile, arms leaning on his raised knees, towel gripped tightly in both hands. He was the picture of tension.

"What did they want from you?" he asked, ignoring Trip's question.

Trip lowered his gaze. Did he really need to get into this again? Okay, Malcolm had a right to know, but he – Trip – had had enough with Archer's visit to sickbay; with his questions, his worried green eyes scrutinising every move, analysing every word; with Phlox's own questions. He bit his lower lip, hoping his silence would dissuade his friend.

"What did they do to you?" Malcolm, instead, insisted darkly.

"What d'you think?" Trip hissed, surprising his own self; the anger had risen through him like a flash. Regret was hard on its heels, triggered by Malcolm's shock.

A rapid rise in blood pressure clearly was not the best of medicines. It sent a stab through Trip's temples that blinded him for a second. He scrunched his eyes closed.

"Let me take you to Phlox," Malcolm said with quiet resolve. He started to pick himself up. "Why did you even come here? You ought to be in your quarters, resting."

He had been. He would be, if when he was in Sickbay Malcolm had paid him a visit – a proper visit, that is, aside from that hasty peek to ask Phlox if he'd survive – and cleared the air between them. Instead he had indulged in his favourite pastime, brooding all alone.

Trip took a deep breath, to steady himself. "At first, it seemed innocent enough," he croaked out. "Name, age, how long had I served in Starfleet…"

Malcolm fell back against the wall.

* * *

TBC

Just a word of reassurance: this story contains nothing gory or graphic. As is my style, it is centred more on the characters' feelings.

Please leave a comment.


	4. Chapter 4

Longer chapter! :-)

§ 4 §

"And in this animation you can see the virtual reconstruction of the battle of Thwponqegri."

On the screen was the aerial view of a hilly countryside. Despite the man's premises it looked quite real, and for a moment Malcolm was truly fascinated, captured by the tactical manoeuvres that were taking place under his eyes. The special perspective and accelerated speed made him appreciate the logic behind certain decisions, which he might otherwise have missed. It looked a lot like a chess game, and he loved chess.

"When was this?" he enquired, unable to take his gaze off the images before him. On one side, vehicles that looked like distant cousins to their old tanks were closing in on a fortified citadel, clinging to the top of a hill; from the other side formations were being deployed in an attempt to push back the attackers.

"One-hundred-and-fifty-six years ago," his guide promptly replied. "In the battle of Thwponqegri the GGW78 destroyer played a decisive role."

Silent white puffs that signified explosions blossomed all over the screen. They might look innocent, but each one of them probably also signified considerable loss of lives. Malcolm shivered inwardly: here they were, captivated by Death. He wondered how many lives had been claimed, in the entire universe, because of people's inability to solve things by sitting around a table.

"Why were they at war?" he asked, on impulse.

"The county of Thwponqegri didn't want to join the celebrations for the election of the new Emperor of Berellia." The guide turned to the screen, where the citadel seemed to be in deep trouble. "We still had an Emperor then."

"You mean they rebelled against the new Emperor?"

"Rebelled?" Thin alien eyebrows lifted. "They wouldn't have. As I said, they didn't celebrate. It was a grave offence."

Malcolm blinked, speechless. These people had a concept of _grave offence_ that was definitely distorted. He had been about to ask how long his visit to the Museum was still going to be, but on second thought he'd better shut up and follow. He just hoped Trip wasn't going to offend anyone.

xxx

"I am sure you understand that we cannot sell technology without getting a little information about who we are selling it to."

The reasoning was sound. But Trip's trust of these people had taken a definite ditch: he didn't like the way they had kind of sneakily manoeuvred him into sending Security off; he didn't like feeling threatened, as he did now; and least of all did he like the hint that Malcolm might bear the consequences of his refusals. That iced him to the core, because it meant that if bad came to worse he'd have to face some pretty damnable choices.

"The question, Commander."

The Minister stopped his lap of the room and came to stand in front of him, dragging him out of his thoughts.

"I thought it was easy enough, but let me repeat it: what are the co-ordinates of Earth? Surely you must know."

His alien gaze was impassive, and its elongated pupils made it look like that of a snake. Trip felt a shiver run down his spine. He definitely didn't want to give this guy their home address.

"Look, Minister," he said, with a lot more self-assurance than he actually felt. "I think we've made a mistake coming here. Let's forget about business. If you'll be so kind as to take Lieutenant Reed and me to our Shuttle, we'll be out of your way."

The back-handed slap took him by surprise, coming as it did after a few seconds of total immobility. Trip tottered as he brought a hand to his mouth; he could taste blood.

"How many inhabitants does this _Earth_ count?" the Minister continued in the same level voice, unperturbed, as he turned away and resumed his laps.

Trip shot him a silent, defiant look; sharp enough to stab the man in the back, if it could materialise.

"This lack of cooperation is very unwise of you, Commander."

The Minister jerked his head, and his two henchmen immediately obeyed his unspoken order. Trip lashed out with a side kick that hit one right in the middle, but it was an unequal struggle. Something connected painfully with his forehead, bringing on darkness.

When he came to, he was tied to the chair.

* * *

Trip rubbed two fingers over his eyes. "It's not as if he'd asked me to give away a top military secret, but... Well, at that point I wasn't gonna tell him as much as the name of the Capt'n's dog." He grimaced. "That changed a little later on, though."

He couldn't sit still any more. He sprang to his feet, mindless of what it would do to his headache, and turned away from Malcolm. It was a moment before the man reacted.

"What do you mean by that?" Malcolm asked.

His voice was restrained – careful; and by the sound of it he had quietly risen and was standing right behind him. The next question was even more hesitant.

"Did you give away any classified information?"

Trip heaved an inner sigh. He couldn't expect Malcolm to let it alone now, could he?

"Damn," the Lieutenant cursed softly, when the reply was late coming.

"I don't know," Trip cut in harshly. He was still showing his back to Malcolm and knew it betrayed his emotions, but had no intention of facing him now. "I can't be sure."

"Then what do you mean when you say---"

There was a stunned pause.

"Damn," Malcolm repeated, in that deep, telling voice this time. "I thought they had only drugged you."

Trip closed his eyes. He didn't want to speak about it. No, maybe he _did_ want to speak about it. Archer and Phlox had only heard the basic facts. He had managed to give them in a sort of detached way – at least to all appearances. But there was more than facts, and Malcolm really should know…

He turned to face his friend.

"Whatever happened, you shouldn't blame yourself," Malcolm said, awkwardly, almost painfully meeting his eyes. Raking a frustrated hand through his hair, he averted his gaze. "To think I was being led by the nose through endless rooms, while---"

"Dammit, Malcolm!" Trip snapped. "A moment ago you were mad as hell at me because I ignored your recommendations, and now you tell me I shouldn't blame myself? By the way, you don't have to worry about your record: I duly reported to the Capatin that _I_ sent Security away, against your will."

His legs felt unsteady, so he went back to the bench. He sure didn't want to crumple to the floor now.

Malcolm looked at him speechlessly for a moment before breathing out, "I've never been worried about my record."

The grey gaze turned assessing. Malcolm was obviously debating whether to call Sickbay. In the end he dropped down on the bench too, and they sat there, in silence, for a good few minutes.

"It wasn't like you think," Trip croaked out, when he had regained a bit of balance, mental as much as physical. "They didn't really hurt me; not… like you think."

"Then how?" Malcolm asked, brow furrowing.

Trip heaved a deep breath, letting his eyes run blatantly up and down his friend's body. "I'm glad you're in one piece," he said; and his pale smile only served to deepen Malcolm's frown.

xxx

"How many species live on your Home World? You can at least tell me that, Commander."

Trip turned defiantly away. To his surprise no slap came this time, and at length he was tempted to look back. Meaningfully, the Minister's gaze flicked to the medical tray and back.

"You really want to make things unpleasant, I see."

"I want you to stop this nonsense and let us go," Trip answered in a level voice.

"I'm afraid you won't go anywhere now, but after you and the Lieutenant suffer an 'unfortunate allergic reaction' we'll return your corpses and your spaceship will leave. Berellia does not welcome strangers. Strangers bring about change. And change leads to social strife."

Trip could not believe his ears. "Why on earth didn't you tell my Captain right away? We would've turned around, no questions asked."

"Because knowing your potential enemies is always a good idea." The alien regarded him as he would someone short of wit. "We might not welcome strangers, but when strangers drop in on us... we turn the situation to our advantage. Call it... _precautionary measures_, against future attacks."

"We aren't in the habit of attacking anyone!" Trip let his eyes go cold. "Now _you're_ the one who's committing a breach of diplomatic protocol," he spat out.

As he walked to the tray, the Minister let out a short laugh. "Oh, that. It _is _a breach of protocol to refuse a formal invitation, wouldn't you agree? This instead…" He waved a hand to encompass Trip and their surroundings, and all mirth left his voice as he went on, "Is a necessity; our duty." With a pointed look he concluded, "It's a pity you're so stubborn, Commander; but we'll get the information for our files, whether you give it to us willingly or not."

Ice spread through Trip's veins, but he tried to cover his feelings. He must keep his head.

"I'll tell you something _for your_ _files_, Minister," he said darkly. "Humans are no warmongers, but don't kid yourself: if you get them angry enough they find resources you'd never expect them to have. They're not afraid to rise up to any challenge."

As Trip delivered that lesson another voice echoed in his mind; the Captain had said just about the same thing to that hostile specie that had silently attacked them at the beginning of their mission, sending the Engineering and Armoury complements on a race around the clock to build their phase cannons. They had come out of that situation alive; he hoped that somehow they would this time too.

The Minister regarded him with self-conceit, not deigning him the grace of a reply. With a shrug, he picked up something from the tray. Trip tried to identify it, but he could not. He braced himself, not wanting to give the man the satisfaction of reading fear on his face, but the truth was he was hardly able to hide it; already his breathing was getting faster, and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

One of the henchmen suddenly grabbed his head from behind, and he lashed in vain against the forced immobility. Something stung his neck. He groaned – a wild sound that betrayed, against his best intentions, a deep-set alarm; the worst was not to know what they were doing to him.

"Take this to the laboratory," the Minister said, giving something to his other helper. The guy walked out of the room, losing height with every step. By the time he was at the door he stood no taller than about a metre.

So they had taken a blood sample. Trip had no time to dwell on the idea, though, because another, sharper prick sent a painful wave radiating all the way down the right side of his neck and arm. He bit his lower lip and scrunched his eyes shut.

"I had warned you, Commander." The alien raised that device from before.

Trip blinked. He opened his mouth to say something, but what? He couldn't betray Earth, not even if it cost him his life, or a friend's life.

The drug was snaking into him; he could virtually feel its icy progress through his bloodstream, and there was nothing he could do about it.

xxx

Malcolm lifted his hands from the commands and slid out of the seat, removing the strange helmet he'd been made to wear and returning it to his host. The lights of the room were bright, after the darkness of the simulated aerial battle; it took him a moment to get used to them again.

"That was interesting. The phase cannons: are they the most advanced model you have developed?" he tried. He didn't believe it for one moment – surely, the Berellians weren't going to show him their state-of-the-art weaponry; but he asked anyway.

His guide ignored the question. "You have above-average skills, Lieutenant," he said instead. "I've never seen anyone take down more than two Birds-of-prey in this particular simulation, and with weapons and commands he's not used to."

It was a guarded compliment; as if the man weren't really pleased about such expertise.

"Novice's luck," Malcolm dismissed, awkwardly. He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head, casting the man a narrow-eyed look. "Have you come into conflict with the Klingons? Those Birds-of-Prey in your simulation looked as detailed as the real thing."

The alien clearly thought before giving a reply. "We... managed to gather some information about them and their technology," he said, carefully.

Malcolm rubbed his chin. "Perhaps you could share some of that?"

Again, his question was ignored. The man ushered him forward.

"This way, Lieutenant."

TBC

Looking forward to your comments!


	5. Chapter 5

Not a terribly long chapter, sorry! I'll do better with the next one.

§5§

Malcolm was screaming. Trip didn't know where he was, or even how he knew it was him, for he had never heard Malcolm scream – but he was certain. It was a throaty sound that curdled the blood in his veins.

"Leave him alone!" he growled, sending an echo bouncing about his mind.

"The co-ordinates of Earth, Commander… _mmander_… _ander_… _der…_"

There was a foul taste in his mouth, and not a drop of saliva. He'd sell his Commander pips for a glass of water.

But he wasn't going to sell Earth.

He looked his captor straight in the eye and spat out, "Go to hell." But even that echoed in his mind, losing its punch.

"We don't know much yet about human physiology… _siology_… _ology_… Think, before you insist in your stubbornness… _ornness_… _ness_… The Lieutenant might suffer irreparable harm… _arm_… _arm…_"

As if on cue, there was another feral scream. Trip bit the inside of his cheek not to scream along. When the next one came, it jolted him like an electric shock: he hurled the Minister a list of uncomplimentary names, tugging wildly against his restraints; but he accomplished nothing. Eventually he stopped, slumping in the chair. He didn't know what hurt more: his head, his wrists or his stomach; but actually perhaps it was his heart, clamped in the vice of guilt and despair.

"How many Warp-capable ships does your Starfleet have… _ave_... _ave_...?"

The Minister pressed the button on that damn device, and another pained scream split the silence.

"You know, I wonder," the alien said nonchalantly. "How much of that red lymph does a human body contain... _ain_... _ain_? Or maybe I should ask how much it can do without... _out_... _out_..."

Trip blinked as the words' ominous meaning slowly sank into his confused mind. "Let him go, you---"

The alien tilted his head and raised the device again. "What are the co-ordinates of Earth?"

xxx

It happened as he was absent-mindedly walking after his guide around the room that contained the uniform exhibits, only half-listening to the alien's monotonous explanations: an emotion which he knew, instantly, not to be his own suddenly had him in its grip. Malcolm stopped in his tracks, confused. The feeling was one of distress, like being trapped without a way out; but the moment he tried to focus on it, it eluded him, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

"Is something the matter, Lieutenant Reed?"

The Berellian sounded uncertain, as if he were worried about something; Malcolm studied the alien, even as the alien studied him. They both tried to bore into the other, both slamming up shields.

"I've just remembered that I'm supposed to check with my ship," Malcolm lied. "Excuse me for a minute."

Without waiting for a reply – and hoping he wouldn't trigger a nuclear war – he took a few steps away for privacy and flicked his communicator open. "Reed to Tucker." When his page was not answered, he decided that calling the ship might actually be a good idea.

"Lieutenant," Hoshi's cheerful voice replied without delay this time, "how can I help you?"

"The Commander and I got separated, and... let's just say I don't have a good feeling about it. Have you heard from him, by any chance?"

"No, Sir." Hoshi's voice had turned serious, and she went on to enquire, "Do you want me to connect you to the Captain? He's in his ready room."

Malcolm winced. He hated gut feelings; they were a tricky thing. He trusted his instincts entirely, and right now they were screaming; but he couldn't exactly ask the Captain to risk a diplomatic incident because he 'felt something was wrong'.

"Negative, Ensign," he reluctantly replied after a moment's thought. "But ask Subcommander T'Pol to keep an eye on the Commander's bio-signs, and to let me know if something seems strange."

"I'm afraid that won't be easy, Sir."

There was a pause.

"Lieutenant," T'Pol's voice greeted him a moment later. "Right after you landed we received a communiqué from the planet, forbidding us to use our scanners. It is considered---"

"A grave offence," Malcolm couldn't help finishing for her. He repressed a groan of frustration.

"Do you require us to contact the planet's officials?"

"Lieutenant," another, sterner voice called behind him.

Malcolm turned to his pissed-off Berellian guide, who had grown at least ten centimetres since he'd last looked at him. He cursed a silent blue streak.

"Negative. I'll be in touch."

xxx

The Minister's relentless questions, Malcolm's pained screams and his own voice made a hellish cacophony that hammered his brain mercilessly. He had given up trying to keep things inside and was shouting at his captor at the top of his lungs. What, he had no idea; he could feel his voice vibrating in his chest, but couldn't make out his own words. It must be that damned echo, which distorted everything into a sickening blend of dissonant sounds. At least it could've erased Malcolm's screams. But no; they tore at his heart, his otherwise confused mind perversely able to single them out of the din.

xxx

"This particular material is heat-resistant, and was devised for use in…"

Malcolm's breath almost hitched as another wave of something swept through him, unwarranted. He very nearly put a hand out to the wall to steady himself. It was something akin to the despair he had felt on that fateful Shuttlepod One mission; the knowledge that all hope was lost. He was unable to fight it, and felt a lump form in his throat.

His guide was still going on in his descriptions, unaware, this time. Malcolm looked at him; looked at the curving corridor lined with show-cases, the end of which he could not see; and decided he'd had enough of this pantomime.

"All this is very interesting, and I don't mean to be rude," he said, butting in and in fact contradicting his own words. "But I would like to get back to Commander Tucker, now."

His heart was still in the grip of whatever had seized it. He had never experienced anything like it before; he couldn't be certain, but what else could it be if not some sort of telepathy? Deep in his heart he knew Trip was in trouble.

The Berellian regarded him coolly. "We've already explained to you, Lieutenant, what, on Berellia, is considered a grave offence, and---"

"Save your breath" Malcolm said levelly, drawing his phase pistol in one smooth movement and pointing it straight at the man. "Is this grave enough for you?" He motioned at the controlled but obviously furious guy with the weapon. "Get me out of this bloody labyrinth, and take me to the Commander. Now."

And since the Berellian was not reacting, he grabbed him by one arm and pressed the pistol into his side, starting with him back the way they had come.

"Don't you try one of your wax-or-wane tricks," he warned. With a narrowed-eye look that was lost on his captive, he lectured, "Even on stun, this _particular weapon_ was devised to drop an enemy weighing a lot more than you do, standing a lot further away."

His guide didn't comment, walking stiffly at his side.

The import of his actions suddenly struck Malcolm like a thunderbolt. What in the bloody hell was he doing? It wasn't like him to risk a diplomatic incident, a demotion, not to mention Trip's fury because of a gut feeling. What if he was wrong? But no, it was more than a gut feeling. It was something a lot stronger. His Security Officer's nature had responded to it; and now, in any case, it was too late to have second thoughts.

* * *

"I don't know what I yelled at them," Trip muttered, turning his head slightly away so he wouldn't have to see his friend's reaction. "All I know is that I couldn't keep my mouth shut any more."

There was a pause.

"I hope their translating device could handle foul words," Malcolm commented, deadpan.

Trip turned abruptly, not amused. "What if it was the information they sought?" he wondered tautly. "What if I---"

"Don't," Malcolm cut him off sharply. "There are situations where things get out of your control. Going on a guilt trip now is not going to help."

The open disbelieve in Trip's eyes elicited a soft huff.

"All right," Malcolm conceded. "I'm not exactly the best person to deliver that sort of lecture."

"I thought you were being…" Trip couldn't finish. He could still hear the screams, if he didn't consciously shut them out.

There was empathy in Malcolm's voice as he quietly said, "I'm sorry they did that to you. It's a technique often used, and quite effective."

He must have seen Trip pale, for he quickly added, "Look, we simply don't know what you told them: let's focus on that."

Right now Trip was too sick to focus on a darn thing. He hugged himself. He must have looked like hell, because with a firm hand on his elbow Malcolm got up, prompting him to do the same.

"I'm taking you to Phlox."

Trip did not resist. He'd been okay in his quarters, but now he could really use some of Phlox's magic potions to settle his stomach and take care of his headache.

They silently left. Malcolm kept close to him, casting him surreptitious glances. At least he was no longer mad.

TBC

Please review


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you for all your comments.

§ 6 §

xxx

"What's Enterprise's firepower… _ower_… _ower_? What exactly is this 'mission of exploration'… _ation_… _ation_?"

Though his throat hurt, Trip screamed even louder.

xxx

From the moment he had drawn his phase pistol, Malcolm's mind hadn't stopped working. He had acted on impulse, without a real plan, which wasn't exactly what the tactics manuals taught you; but on the other hand in Security class Sergeant O'Brian had drilled him to perfection to react quickly to the unforeseen, to adjust his aim in fractions of seconds. This time he had simply reacted to a catalyst that was not physically there. That was all.

Bloody hell, if he was to remain focused and pull this off he had to stop thinking in terms of 'real' or 'not real'.

One positive aspect of having been given such an endless tour in that cursed Museum was that the way back out was long enough to give him a chance to develop some sort of strategy. On one issue he had no doubts: he wasn't going to involve Enterprise. Not just yet. First he wanted to see Trip with his own two eyes. If the Commander wasn't hurt, Lieutenant Reed alone should have to pay the consequences of his misdeeds; if, instead, something was indeed wrong with Trip... well, he had an ace up his sleeve which he intended to play.

As to how he was going to rejoin the Engineer, he would try to get them to bring Trip to _him_, rather than the other way round. He didn't know much about this planet's shields – if it had any – but remaining outside buildings would undoubtedly increase his chances of success. He also truly hoped his guide, despite all those lengthy lectures, was no great expert at weapons – or he'd have to rethink his strategy, and fast.

The War Museum, much like the station they'd arrived at, wasn't open to the public. They hadn't met a soul in it. It was located in the Defence Ministry building, which was – from what he could understand – one of a cluster of government structures.

He was taking a few too many things for granted, where in fact they remained unverified guesses; but there was nothing he could do about it.

Malcolm had left Trip in the Ministry of Intergalactic Affairs, just across the winding road. The whole area was swarming with people, but there was a distinctive feeling of circumscription and belonging to it. This seemed no ordinary district of town: no vehicles, other than a monorail snaking in the middle of the road; no shops; no restaurants; no fountains; no parks; no children; and from what he could tell, no apartment buildings. It was, it appeared, a little city in the city, and his bet was that Berellia's administrative centre was all here, in these few square miles closed off to the rest of town.

Everyone seemed pretty well absorbed in their businesses. As they crossed the street, a few Berellians, from their diminutive height, cast Malcolm, who was obviously alien, quick looks, but no one paid them much attention or – what was more important – stopped them. Before leaving the Museum, Malcolm had 'borrowed' a rain cape from one of the dummies on display, to help conceal the weapon he kept trained on his guide. It looked a bit silly on him, reaching only down to his waist; come to think of it, it would probably stretch if he pulled at it, but the important thing was that it did the job just fine. Much as he hated to admit it, Malcolm was glad, now, for the light drizzle; it gave him an excuse for wearing that ridiculous garment without raising suspicions: people must think his Berellian guide had taken pity on him.

They got to the Ministry of Intergalactic Affairs without problems, and Malcolm restrained his captive from entering. The man shot him a fuming look.

"Didn't you want to go to Commander Tucker?" he hissed.

Malcolm jarred him meaningfully in the ribs with his phase pistol – provided Berellian physiology even had ribs – as three people exited the building and passed no further than a metre from them, deep in discussion. "Get your friend to bring the Commander down," he hissed back once he deemed the three were far enough away.

His guide, unexpectedly, let out a sonorous laugh, which was at odd with the serious countenance he had kept so far. It grated on Malcolm's nerves, already quite uncomfortably tight.

"I've come this far quietly, Lieutenant," the alien said, looking, all of a sudden, entirely amused. "But you can't honestly think that you will succeed in this foolish plan of yours and leave the planet unscathed, can you?"

Time to test the man's knowledge of weapons; or perhaps his gullibility. Time to test his own ability as a con artist, too.

Malcolm let a hardened and self-assured expression slip over his face, and to his satisfaction it caused the Berellian's glee to taper down quickly. There had been a time when he had made great use of this personal weapon of his: his gaze, which he could get as steely and cutting as a blade. It was a heritage of the Reeds which had got honed to perfection during his service with Section 31. As with that period of his life, he had grown less proud of it, in time; now, though, it came undoubtedly handy.

"Let me give you a short lecture on _our_ weapons, now," Malcolm said, in the deep voice that was the perfect companion to that determined look. He unzipped his leg pocket and produced a small micro-charge, showing it briefly to the man. "This innocent-looking little thing here is powerful enough to blow up an area within a radius of five miles. I believe a good percentage of the Berellian establishment would go up in smoke then, am I right?"

A glint crossed the man's reptilian eyes, which answered Malcolm's question.

Tick one guess off.

"I'm willing to sacrifice my own life, as well as the Commander's," Malcolm continued, still in a tone that left no room for doubts. "I'm quite the lover of explosions, I'll have you know. Either you let us go, or, if we must die, I'll make sure we go out in style, taking with us as many of your powers-that-be as we can." He shrugged. "Surely a more honourable death than what you have in store for us."

He was quite proud of the way he had delivered that speech; he could see he had set the wheels in the Berellian's mind in motion.

"What makes you think we want to do the Commander and you any harm?" his guide asked, a snake turned suddenly lamb. "You are making a serious mistake, Lieutenant, but we can still fix it. Let's not turn a friendly first contact into a hostile one, for no reason."

The words threatened to throw Malcolm off-balance. Had he mounted a rescue on thin air?

Right on cue, a new wave of that disquieting emotion swept through him.

"Get me Commander Tucker," he growled, bending under its impact. "And don't even _think_ of trying any tricks on me." To stress the point, he raised the micro-charge and the man stopped in mid-action the hand that was going to reach inside a pocket.

Malcolm clamped down on his anxiety, careful to project an aura of ruthlessness. In moments like these, actually, he was bitterly grateful about his experience with Section 31. He met the Berellian's eyes squarely, shoving any doubts behind plates of steel. Had the man swallowed bait? Or was he going to risk calling his bluff?

His captive's mouth became a thin line as he slowly resumed his movement, digging a hand inside a breast-pocket and retrieving a communicator. "Agozewgtont," he paged.

No wonder he couldn't remember these people's names…

"Why are you calling?" a gruff voice floated through the communicator. "You're not supposed to be finished with your tour yet."

"The Lieutenant has me at gun point and is threatening to use a powerful explosive that could blow up half the government complex," the guide said, reptilian eyes fixed into Malcolm's. "He wants you to bring Commander Tucker down."

Malcolm allowed himself a small inner sigh of relief. Tick another guess off. Müller would have a ball when he told him he had tricked a guy into believing that a micro-charge designed to blow up a bulkhead…

Focus on the present. The building's entrance door triggered open and another couple of people exited; Malcolm unobtrusively pulled his man a few steps to the side.

There was a long pause, making the tension escalate.

"Do you believe him?" the Minister's asked, at length.

The guide's eyes narrowed, and bored even deeper into those of his captor. Malcolm hardened his even more; his heart was thumping so loudly in his chest that he wondered if the Berellian could hear it.

"Are you willing to take the risk?" the guide finally replied.

xxx

When Trip was pushed though the building's door, looking unhurt, Malcolm's blood pressure skyrocketed, only to plunge a moment later when the relief of seeing his friend whole gave room to the knowledge that he had screwed up royally. The man would skin him alive.

"Commander," he said tautly, readying himself for a harsh reprimand.

Trip looked at him and blinked, and immediately another wave of emotion hit Malcolm with unprecedented force, sending his mind reeling.

"Stop it, you bastards," Trip growled in a hoarse voice. He jerked his head to shoot the Minister of Intergalactic Affairs a look full of hatred and tottered, but regained his balance. "I know he's not real."

Malcolm too regained his balance, albeit mental. He shoved his captive forward and raised the micro-charge threateningly, keeping it well in sight of the aliens. "Commander," he called more urgently. "Trip." He stepped forward and touched his friend's arm, and Trip recoiled with a choked 'get away from me'.

He didn't need to know anything more. Time to use that ace up his sleeve, and hope that his SIC was as smart and reliable as he thought he was; and that the Captain didn't demote them both.

* * *

Ensign Bernhard Müller was in the middle of an ordinary day, when the extraordinary happened.

Amazing how quickly your perspective could change – he mused, green eyes wide with bewilderment: the REED – Request for Emergency Evacuation Device (a bit narcissistic, but better than what the Lieutenant had come up with) – started vibrating in his pocket and the equation 'normal = boring' was shattered in an instant.

Bernhard hesitated only about a second – or so it seemed to his frozen mind – then retrieved the device and looked at it: two small green lights were blinking. Code Two for two.

'Tea for two' began to run, incongruously, through his thoughts, its cheerful tune totally at odds with the heavy load that was settling in his stomach. For a flash he even had a mental picture of Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker singing. A nervous reaction, undoubtedly. Either that or he was going off his rocker. The problem at hand, though, was how to do what the blinking lights asked him to do and not get _thrown_ off this _rocket_ – as in spaceship.

Well, he had to risk it; he had to respond to the emergency call, because if he didn't lives might be lost. He had to do it immediately and without hesitation, as per the Lieutenant's new security protocol; without even informing the Captain. The fact that the protocol hadn't yet been cleared with Archer, that he knew nothing about it, was a small, negligible detail...

Bernhard dropped the gun he was servicing and took off at a run, under the puzzled glances of his fellow Armoury men. As he sprinted down the corridors towards the transporter room, he prayed all saints in heaven that this _was_, indeed, an emergency. For all he knew Reed might keep the REED in an arm pocket, and have inadvertently activated it while leaning with his shoulder against a wall.

Gosh! He didn't want to think what would befall him if this was all a mistake! Although it would be interesting to hear what sort of curse the Commander would come up with, if he were to be unnecessarily and abruptly pulled out of his negotiations...

xxx

Malcolm gave a mental pat to Müller's shoulder and blessed, for once, the tingling sensation in his limbs. Never again would he complain about the transporter; he had to admit that in cases like this it was a true blessing. What wasn't a blessing, unexpected as it came, was the uppercut that displaced his jaw just moments after they had re-materialised. Malcolm received it with an 'Umph' and crashed against the Shuttlepod, near which they had been dutifully deposited, as per his Code Two instructions.

For a second he was stunned. The drizzle had turned into something a little more consistent, and his mind only registered its soft background noise. But soon his training kicked in and he pushed off the wet fuselage, turning to face his new 'foe'. Trip was squinting at him, face twisted in bad blood.

"Trip, it's me," Malcolm said urgently, raising his hands to ward off another blow.

The Engineer blinked away the rain that was getting in his eyes and wobbled. "The hell you are," he spat out.

With a sudden leap forward, he flung out another fist. Malcolm easily avoided it this time, catching the man as he followed his own momentum. Trip twisted angrily in his arms, grunting something incoherent, but his movements were sluggish and his coordination faulty. Finally his legs gave way and he sank to the ground. Malcolm slowly released him, the adrenaline that had free rein of his system quickening his breath. He fixed worried eyes on his friend and superior officer, the man he had come along to protect: he looked totally spaced-out.

Great job, Lieutenant Reed.

Dragging someone as heavy as Trip inside the pod was not an easy task. The Engineer was too confused to put up a fight and had apparently decided on the 'deadweight' tactics. The rain had intensified even more, making the operation real fun, but Malcolm put all his energy into it; he was worried about the Berellians showing up. Even if they didn't have transport technology, that 'arrow' was awfully fast... He almost regretted not giving Bernhard a Code One - transport directly back to the ship.

Indeed he had just managed to shove Trip inside the pod when he heard the characteristic buzzing of the lift. Laser beams missed him by inches as he lunged through the open hatch. He didn't bother to return fire. Rolling to the side of the hatch, he slammed a hand on the commands to make it close; then jumped up and flew to the pilot seat.

"Comeoncomeoncomeon," he muttered as the engine slowly came to life.

He tore at that ridiculous raining cape and threw it aside, sending drops of water all over, and passed a hand through his wet hair to push an unruly lock from his forehead.

"Pre-flight checks are mandatory before lift-off," a recorded message reminded him. _The _recorded message _he_ had recorded and wanted installed. A list of checks started blinking at him from one monitor. He ignored it and proceeded to power up the engine.

"Security protocol SL---"

"Oh, shut up," Malcolm told his own self, deactivating the protocol while glancing nervously at his instruments, expecting from one moment to the next to see enemy ships appear on the display.

They did, eventually; but by then the Shuttlepod was already too far ahead, breaking free of the planet's thermosphere. He doubted Berellians would chase him that far – or rather, that close to Enterprise.

He was releasing a relieved breath when the comm. beeped. He paused, eyeing the red blinking light with dread. He steadied himself.

"Shuttlepod One."

Whoever was on the other end might have thought he was coming back from a pleasure ride, so perfectly calm his tone was.

"What the hell have the two of you done this time?"

Captain Archer's voice sounded slightly less serene. Malcolm bit his lower lip, casting a glance over his shoulder to Trip, who was sitting on the floor, as far back as he could, hugging his knees, trembling and looking at him with dilated pupils.

"It's a long story, Sir. I'll tell you all about it as soon as we dock. Please have Doctor Phlox meet us in launch bay. "

* * *

Malcolm's concern had only melted the day after returning to Enterprise, once the Doctor had finally reassured them that Trip would be okay; it had left behind, though, a brew of frustration and resentment that, after simmering for a while, had reached boiling point.

Grabbing a towel, Malcolm had gone to the gym.

TBC

A last chapter will wrap it all up. Looking forward to your reviews.


	7. Chapter 7

Last chapter!

§ 7 §

"Here we go, Commander."

The hiss of a hypospray, Phlox's stretchy smile, Malcolm's slightly worried gaze… Trip gripped the edge of the biobed and closed his eyes, willing to shut everything off.

"Why don't you lie down for a few minutes," the Doctor went on happily. "It won't be long before you feel better, and then you can return to your quarters."

Trip groaned his assent and started shifting to a horizontal position. Someone helped him; he didn't look whether it was Phlox or Malcolm.

He'd drifted off the moment his symptoms had started giving him a bit of respite. It couldn't have been very long, though, because when he re-opened his eyes, Malcolm was still there. The man was sitting listlessly, towel around his neck, eyes lost on some nondescript spot on the deck plating, mind miles away. Trip watched him in silence. Malcolm was good at hiding behind all kinds of shields when he was with people, so here was his chance to study him undisturbed, read him through, as it were.

There were definite signs of exhaustion on the Lieutenant's face. He really should have noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Well, one took for granted that if a person chose to lift weights after duty he couldn't be very tired… But actually he wouldn't have been able to see anything because he'd been too focused on himself, on how he was going to structure his line of defence. Now that they had finally confronted each other, his eyes had opened to the world around him. Now he saw that he may well have suffered the consequences of his command decisions on his own hide, but Malcolm had been put through his own little hell as well; because of those decisions…

Trip's gaze shifted to the discoloration on the Lieutenant's jaw, and his brow furrowed in a frown. That too he had managed to miss…

"How'd you get that bruise?" he drawled quietly, breaking the silence.

He watched the grey gaze close off slightly, as it shifted to him and refocused on the present. Slipping an arm under his pillow, Trip turned on his side, to face his friend. Malcolm straightened in his chair and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth and hesitated.

"It was me?" Trip asked, with a wince. Sometimes they had this thing: instant communication.

"You thought those Berellians… Well, you thought that I… that I wasn't really me. You were… well, out of it."

"You bet I was," Trip quipped, to break the awkwardness. "I would never dare, in my right mind."

Malcolm's face smoothed in a smile and his shoulders relaxed. "I take it you're feeling better."

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Phlox said you're likely to have a few relapses, but you ought to improve fast and be back on duty in a couple of days."

"Peachy," Trip commented, deadpan.

With a shrug of sympathy, Malcolm relapsed into silence. He seemed without energy. He must have exhausted it all by brooding all this time. The man must have worried and built up frustration from the moment they'd separated on the planet to their confrontation in the gym. In terms of hours that was something like… Well, an awful lot of time.

"So, how did you…" Trip moved a finger in a circle. Again, he didn't need to formulate a proper question, Malcolm caught on right away.

"The hell if I know," he huffed out. "I felt… your emotions, I guess."

"You don't strike me as the type of person who'd give credit to that kind of thing," Trip wondered.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes in thought. "I wasn't sure about it, but… in a way I _was_. Absolutely certain." Huskily, he added, "Somehow I knew you were in trouble."

Trip was suddenly self-conscious. "Can you feel them now? My emotions?"

It was a relief to see Malcolm shake his head.

"Phlox said that it had probably something to do with the drugs they injected you with. Made you sort of telepathic."

A screech in the background was followed by a few guttural sounds. Trip caught Malcolm's eyes, and they both grimaced. Phlox's manifestations of affection for his creatures were kind of weird.

Come to think of it – Trip mused – he'd take on that offer to rest in his quarters. Throwing his legs off the side of the biobed, he sat up.

Malcolm shot up from his chair. "I'll walk you to your quarters," he said, in a tone that conveyed his entire support.

Trip nodded and opened his mouth to notify Phlox.

"Don't hesitate to contact me, should your symptoms come back, Commander," the Doctor chirruped, without turning from his menagerie.

Rolling his eyes, Trip slipped off the bed. "Sure thing. Thanks, Doc."

* * *

"The Capt'n told me about your new REED security protocol."

The incoherent sound that met that comment prompted Trip to look at the man who was walking at his side. Well, Malcolm oughtta expect a bit of ribbing for that...

"Tryin' again to go down in history, huh, after we botched the _Reed _alert?"

Malcolm's eyes darted to him, and there was a naughty glint in them.

"My first choice, actually, was ARSE – Abrupt Rescue and Speedy Evacuation," he said in a subtle tone that left Trip wondering if he was serious. "But Müller thought REED would go down better with the Captain."

Trip chuckled. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He could imagine the two Armoury men, both the picture of propriety, discussing the choice of acronym. Malcolm's wild streak wasn't for everyone to see, and it was good to know he felt comfortable enough with someone else on the ship to let that side of him come to the surface. Most of all, Trip was glad the sullen Lieutenant he had found in the gym earlier on seemed to have disappeared.

"Never underestimate your SIC's suggestions. By the way, the Capt'n told me he'll give his okay," he revealed, hoping to be the first to break the good news.

"Damn right he should."

Trip stopped, causing Malcolm to retrace a couple of steps. The sharp comment contained – he knew – a measure of criticism directed also at him. The grey eyes met his unabashedly, if not confrontationally.

"Look, Trip, if we had stayed together, on that planet, it may or may not have made any difference, I'll grant you that," Malcolm said, crossing his arms over his chest. "But this mission once more goes to show that we can't take people's sincerity for granted. We need to be more cautious."

They held each other's gaze for a long moment; then Trip winced. "I hate that; sort of goes against my nature."

The tension that had re-entered Malcolm's body left it again.

"I know," he said quietly, unfolding his arms. "Yours and the Captain's. I suppose that's why it's all the more important you take my advice into consideration."

Trip could hear a veil of bitterness in the words; not only for the obvious facts. He could hear self-reproach; regret that Malcolm's own nature was so different, so much more guarded and distrustful. As if the quality that made him a fine professional also made him a faulty human being. He wanted to say something, but the corridor of a ship was no place for such a conversation. A couple of crewmen were coming down the other end, and they resumed walking, exchanging nods as they passed by.

The ship was quiet; it was already close to midnight.

Waiting for the turbo-lift, Trip let out a mirthless huff. "Why are people so afraid of other people?" he wondered. "It's crazy, when you think of it: Berellians did what they did because they were afraid of _us_."

"People are afraid of what is different, of what they don't know."

A touch of self-consciousness laced the words, after the lecture on caution.

"So the answer is gather knowledge by any method?" Trip passed a nervous hand up and down his hair. The fear of having revealed something he shouldn't have had resurfaced with a vengeance.

"Quit worrying, Trip," Malcolm said.

The man could read him all right.

"Chances are that even if you did tell them something, they aren't going to use that information. They seem to be pretty closed off to the universe."

Trip knew there was another danger, which Malcolm surely was aware of but had refrained from mentioning; that the information might fall into different hands. Damn! There must be some way to find out whether...

"Hoshi has been tapping in and recording the Ministry of Intergalactic Affairs' comm. channels," Malcolm said, as if he'd read his thoughts. "She has an awful lot of data to run through the translation matrix, but sooner or later we ought to pick up something useful. We'll know."

"And then?" Trip asked tautly, entering the lift. He turned to his friend.

"And then, if needs be, we'll do something about it."

There was the cool determination of the professional, in Malcolm's voice. It calmed the storm inside Trip's breast. He drew comfort from the Lieutenant's strength.

"Like threaten to drop a couple of micro-charges and blow up the entire city?" he enquired, tongue-in-cheek.

Questioning eyebrows lifted.

"The Captain told me," Trip said with a shrug.

Malcolm let the doors close behind him, before breaking into a smile. "Wasn't that a grand pseudo-explosion?"

Trip shook his head. Trust Malcolm to fix things that way…

"The best, Lieutenant, the best."

THE END

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